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A Chinese Beach

The astronauts brought back moon rocks for people to keep and pray to. 

I think we are the only ones that decided to eat them instead. 


 

As I walked down Pacific, I remembered a time that my street used to become your street, and we would walk the night up the hill and navigate that ship from up high into the clouds. 


 

But your street moved one night, far south through the 101, where police cars smuggle fruits from the tropics, and that same night our coral castles burnt down, it is impossible to build a structure with ashes. Now I walk Pacific East, 

not West.

As I do, I remember a certain Chinese Beach we went to, and left the foot prints of our orbits there; for years I thought that beach was part of a dream, but tonight as I look up at the moon, I see the sand of that beach and over that sand the orbits we made with our feet.